The storm outside raged on so did the one inside.
Guinevere sat on that armchair, legs wide apart and Jonah's face buried there. The two of them were intertwined, lost in a feverish charade of desires.
Jonah's mind was in a haze.
He could feel Guinevere's nails digging into his skin as her grip tightened on his hair pushing him more.
His touch had lost the feeling of taste for how long it had been.
Like when you chew a piece of bread long enough, it starts to taste sweet. And that's what it was. Sweetness. That was all he could taste now.
He kisses her lips below around the hole, sucking on them and rubbing them as if they were candy. He hadn't yet gotten a single moan out of her and yet there he was. Already a cumming mess below.
He trembled as her other hand traced circles on his neck with her nails. Like she was scratching out a path to dig in later.
And as he licked her clitoris, both of them felt a jolt in her body. He didn't dare look up. But he could feel that was it by how hot the skin under his lips had become suddenly. He sucked on it and traced it with every instrument available in his mouth.
Her nails began to dig in on his back as she moved around. Her voice, he could not hear but the cold heavy breaths he could. And that turned him on even more.
He was so immersed he forgot he was a dog and held her waist with his hands, raising it up and burying his face further in.
"Haa," he heard Guinevere a single time, and her body trembled. She had an orgasm.
Her nails dug in his back drawing blood, it was fucking painful.
But he was on cloud nine, right now.
The pain was almost like a relief, a reminder that this was real—that she was real.
He rose his head and looked up at his master. She scowled down at him as her face was still flushing red from the orgasm.
She held his face and yanked it closer.
"Fucking bad dog," she said coldly.
She kissed his lips and he crumbled down.
As they continued to kiss, Jonah's grip on reality began to slip. His head felt heavy, his thoughts muddled, and his body felt weak. He tried to shake off the feeling, to focus on the taste of her lips, the way her hair brushed against his face, but it was no use. His vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness washed over him.
Suddenly, Jonah's body went limp. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped on the floor, his consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers.
The last thing he saw before everything went dark was Guinevere's cold, triumphant smile, her eyes gleaming with a mix of satisfaction.
Guinevere watched as Jonah passed out beneath her, his body going slack as he succumbed to the effects of the drug she had put on to her pussy.
She could feel his heart beating slower.
She stayed there for a moment longer.
She leaned down, her lips brushing against his once more as she bit down on his lower lip, drawing just enough blood to leave a mark.
It was a reminder. A trophy.
Carefully, she laid Jonah back in the armchair, arranging his body as if he were merely sleeping.
His face was flushed, his lips still swollen from their prolonged kiss.
With slow, deliberate movements, she began to walk away, leaving the library.
The hallways of the manor were dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning, but Guinevere moved through them with ease.
She was like a nocturnal creature that belonged to the darkness.
She descended the grand staircase with a grace that belied the coldness of her thoughts.
Each step was measured, and deliberate, as if she were taking her time, savoring the anticipation of what she was about to uncover.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused, her gaze fixed on a singular, unimpressive door hidden beneath the staircase—a door that most would overlook, dismiss as unimportant.
She opened the door and was immediately greeted by a rush of cold, musty air.
The basement.
It was dark, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow all light, all sound, leaving nothing but an oppressive silence.
Guinevere stepped inside, her movements were calm and unhurried as if she belonged in that darkness.
The stairs creaked beneath her feet as she walked down into the basement.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, aided by the faint slivers of thunderlight that seeped in through the small, dirty windows high up on the walls.
The basement was vast, filled with old, forgotten things—furniture covered in dust, crates piled high, and boxes that had been left untouched for years.
It was the portrait that caught her attention, the one that hung on the far wall, partially blocked by cobwebs and shadows.
Guinevere approached it slowly.
The portrait depicted a family—the Goodwills family.
Herman Goodwills, the previous owner of the manor, stood tall and proud beside his beautiful wife, Maria. And in front of them were two boys, nearly identical, their faces filled with youthful innocence.
Guinevere studied the faces of the boys.
One of them was a perfect match for the man whose portrait hung in the hall upstairs—the obnoxious man.
But it was the other boy who caught her attention, the one whose face was a perfect match for Jonah.
She reached out, her fingers brushing against the dust-covered canvas as she touched the face of the boy who looked so much like the man she had been so carefully observing.
Her mind raced with possibilities, with questions that she now knew she needed answers to.
Ever since the chains had been removed, Guinevere had been watching Jonah—so meticulously.
He had thought she was merely indulging in her desires, that she was too preoccupied with the twisted games they played to notice anything else. But he was wrong.
Guinevere had been observing him, following him around the manor without his knowledge, studying his every move, every expression.
Guinevere let out a low, humorless laugh as she took a step back from the portrait, her eyes deadly black.
This was the secret he had been keeping from her, the reason he had refused to tell her why he had killed the actual owner of the Goodwills Manor. Jonah Goodwills wasn't the man she had been dealing with—it was the other boy in the portrait.
Her eyes flicked to the portrait, and she let out another laugh, this one more perverse, more twisted.
"How fucked up," she muttered to herself, her voice echoing in the empty basement.
Guinevere turned away from the portrait. She began to search through the piles of boxes and crates that filled the basement. She was looking for something, anything, that would give her more information into the twisted history of the Goodwills family.
Something that would tell her this other boy's name.
She searched with a meticulousness that bordered on obsession, her movements calculated and precise as she sifted through the dust-covered relics of the past without leaving a single trace of her presence.
Hours passed, the storm outside continuing to rage as the night wore on.
Guinevere kept searching.
And then, just as the first light of dawn began to filter through the small windows, she found it—a diary, old and worn, its pages had turned yellow with age.
The name on the first page sent a thrill through her—Herman Goodwills. The previous owner of the manor, the father of Jonah, and this other boy.
She opened the diary hungry for information.
The first line that ever mentioned his offspring was almost at the end of the diary.
And there was this line;
"I had always wanted a child taking after me, preferably a boy, who would inherit my legacy. But God had to gift me with twins. It feels more like a curse to see my legacy split in halves than God's merciful blessing. I cannot give Jonah and Ezekiel equal futures. Oh, forgive me, lord, as I am going to sin."
Ezekiel.
That was his name.
Guinevere touched his name written on the diary. The depth of the impression of the pen's tip had far too long ago flattened under the pages' weight.
She tore off that page and took it along with her.
Reaching up to the library, she opened the book she was reading and put the carefully folded page inside, like a treasure.
That was why she liked the library so much, it was her treasure chest. Every book she had read had a trace of her secret expeditions. A souvenir she took from everywhere she had followed Ezekiel and things that belonged to him.
She closed the book. Placed it back on the shelf and took out another one. She looked at Ezekiel's sleeping face, she saw the blood on his lower dried up. She leaned in close, licking the blood, and then sat down, reading on the floor.